~ There's no metaphysics on Earth like dessert.

Monthly Archives: September 2012

When I was young, my parents hired a bunch of au pairs to take care of my siblings and me while they were at work. They came from all over Europe: Spain, Sweden, Germany, Holland. Does that seem like a lot? It is. Technically, they were each supposed to stay for a year, but my two brothers and I were never “easy” children, so any given au pair lasted for a maximum of six months before she sent herself back to her home country.

That is, all but one: a Norwegian woman who not only lasted the full year, but somehow even liked us. After she left, she would faithfully write us letters (imagine the pure joy of receiving an airmail envelope when you are eight-years-old) and, better yet, send us Christmas care packages every year. It didn’t matter that we were Jewish. No dreidel-wrapped toy could compare to our annual Norwegian God Jul bag of marshmallow ropes, caviar in a toothpaste tube (for one brother who adored the stuff), and cartons of licorice all-sorts (which none of us touched).

Thanks to the wonders of Facebook, my family still keeps in touch with this babysitter, and I’ve always felt a sort of kinship to Norway because of her. In fact, one of the things that drew me to N. when we first met was that he has a research fellowship in the same Norwegian city where she is from. Coincidence? I think not. Okay, maybe.

So when I heard about Bakeri, a bake shop opened by a Norwegian, whose name means “bakery” in Norwegian and which stocks treats like Fjørd bread (a loaf chock full of imported whole grains) and skolebrød, I couldn’t wait to check it out.

One of the reasons I love New York City is the rapid change. Even in a bear economy, stores and restaurants bud, bloom, and then die, supplanted by the next new thing. It can be exciting and stimulating, manna for someone who thrills with the vibe of transition. But it also means that nothing can be held sacred. Old favorites can never be taken for granted, and the idea of a “classic” has an unusually temperamental tinge.

So when a colleague of mine suggested meeting at Café des Artistes for a leisurely lunch, I immediately recalled this history of this archetypal “Old New York” destination, opened in 1917 and renowned for serving some of the city’s elite.

Except that it wasn’t Café des Artistes anymore. It was reborn in 2011 as The Leopard at des Artistes.

Despite the jazzy, exotic new name, The Leopard at des Artistes maintains the stately feel of its predecessor. The large-scale murals covering the walls, a holdover from the Café days, remind you that this is still a place to bring your parents (or grandparents), assuming they are as well-heeled as the rest of the clientele.

If you are in the mood to linger and really want to treat yourself, The Leopard at Des Artistes is a perfect place to sit and enjoy a sumptuous dessert.

But choose wisely. The Leopard, despite its pedigree, has some standouts, but it also makes some rookie mistakes.

There are a lot of people who think brunch in New York is for lazy wastrels who would rather spend an hour and a half in line simply to pay three times more for their organic poached eggs and French toast than if they had taken the ten minutes to prepare them for themselves at home. To which I say: sometimes a person wants someone else to poach her eggs or French her toast for her.

And let’s not forget the inordinate opulence of brunch offerings. It’s not just an omelet; it’s an omelette with goat cheese, heirloom tomato, and chives. They’re not just pancakes; they’re lemon-ricotta hotcakes topped with macerated strawberries. Semantics, sure, but it is nice to feel indulgent for less than $20.

Then, every once in a while, you order a humble item that so exceeds its promise, you remember: this is why brunch in New York is worth the hassle and expense.

Something you should know about me: I have an affinity for almost any frozen dessert. Ice cream, gelato, custard, yogurt, even those concoctions of questionable chemical origin. If I can scoop it, I’ll probably enjoy it. This is not to say I don’t have discriminating taste – I do – but I believe that for every time and place there is an appropriate and complementary cold confection.

I’m especially spoiled. I live in Park Slope, where I have quick access to some of the most notable scoop shops in the city. If I want ice cream with a clever, textured twist, I go to Ample Hills Creamery. If I want a more refined, ultra-rich cone, I stop by Blue Marble. And if I am aiming for something a little cleaner and just a smidgen healthier, I go to Culture for their tangy homemade frozen yogurt.